


Take Care of Those You Call Your Own, and Keep Good Company

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band), Rock Music RPF
Genre: 1970s Era Queen (Band), Affectionate Insults, Band Fic, Banter, Best Friends, Bullying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Drunken Shenanigans, Epic Friendship, F/M, Families of Choice, First Meetings, Fist Fights, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hugs, I mean accurate, Introspection, John finds Roger super pretty, John is a Good Friend, Love, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Mother Hen Brian May, Nicknames, Origins, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Philosophy, Photography, Physically and emotionally intimate friendships found here, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Freddie Mercury, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Rog is pretty, Slurs, Smoking, Tender Roger Taylor, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: When a band begins, a lot happens. There are myriad challenges to face.For some, learning to accept each other, or play together, or deal with one another's shenanigans and idiosyncrasies can be a challenge--but for the rock band known as Queen, well, they have togettogether, first.(Or, the --both real and imagined-- events that brought four talented men together and helped them learn not only how to function as a band, but as a family.)
Relationships: Brian May & Freddie Mercury, Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, Brian May & Roger Taylor, Brian May/Chrissie Mullen, Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 56
Kudos: 71





	1. As It Began

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is dedicated to my dear friend whose work is included here, but who wishes to remain anonymous. The ghost writer (and editor) of my work on this tale, the inspiration on my shoulder, a person whose excitement and support gets me through --both this piece and others galore. You know who you are, my dear, and I thank you.

**October, 1970.**

It is a dim and smokey atmosphere in the low-litten club. A cacophony of sound rises as the young man shifts himself carefully out of the way of others, vocalising a soft "excuse me" or "sorry" as he moves, bumping into someone by mistake. 

The bloke whose gal he had apparently run into whirls, but sizing up the thin young man with long brown locks and large, unassuming green-grey eyes apparently decides he is not a threat. Besides the fact that his face crinkles in a gap-toothed smile before he shuffles to a spot in the rear of the place, not wanting to take up a barstool that someone else could use. He clears his throat and asks for a lager from the bartender, who sizes him up, shrugs, snorts, and turns away. The young man looks down, pale knobbly fingertips tapping against the slightly sticky surface of the wood of the bar. His head rises as he hears shifting and electronic sounds emanating from the direction of the miniscule stage. It is barely large enough to hold a drum kit and two standing microphones.

John, squinting, can barely see the four shadowy figures that have descended upon said stage: one at the front with a microphone, two armed with an electric and bass guitars, and another tucked behind the drums. They are all dressed in black, and three of the four are dark-haired, making them even more difficult to view against their dark surroundings. The only eye-catching aspect of the band’s appearance is the golden glint of the drummer’s long blond waves.

He lets out a puff of air from his nostrils as they start to play. Sound isn't the best, but this is far from the worst performance of an unrecognisable band. The lead singer's voice is good, John reflects, even dealing with the abysmal quality of the pub's sound. Two other voices meld with his on the harmonies--not clear whether it's the bassist singing or the guitarist, but he can hear a high falsetto shriek that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

John takes notice of the high pitch again, and realises it is emanating from the drummer, a more petite personage from the view he has. As drumsticks fly so does blond hair, and in the single shaft of light at the back of the stage he catches sight of sparkling eyes and round cheeks. 

John feels a warmth stir in his chest watching the drummer. How astounding she is, keeping the rhythm in time without appearing even a bit frazzled, especially as the bassist doesn't seem to have a handle on timekeeping. The guitarist is less unrattled. In the darkness, he seems to grow tense, frustrated; John notes his long fingers move in fits and starts, the clear sound of his instrument growing less clean as the set goes on. At least he started off decent, which is more than can be said for the consistently muddy sounds the bassist is producing.

This is all right, though-- John has come out of his dormitory for reasons other than going to class or studying, and though he may not remember the name of this particular band, he's glad to listen and to be out tonight. He is content to sit and hear them play, though he would be even MORE content if he had a beer in hand. Even manages a nod to the gorgeous drummer, who is swept up in a group of girls after the set and comes to the bar for drinks. John sees a wide grin and laughing blue eyes as they catch his where he stands in the corner. "G-good show," he manages.

John receives a rising eyebrow and a nod, preceding a jaunty wink before a sweet high tone purrs to him "Cheers, mate," and then the drummer is swallowed by the crowd again. John hears that voice screech out "Brian!" And spies the blond head bob and throw itself at someone--the lanky guitarist, whose long hair is as black as the outfits they all were wearing. John only sees him from the sight of his long hands and lean face, a strip of his chest exposed by the deep cut of his shirt. As the drummer's arms wrap round the guitarist in a hug, the tall man smiles indulgently, teeth sharply catching the light as his long fingers cinch round the waist of the shorter. Something lurches in John's chest as he spots the lead singer join them, and be happily pulled into what has now become a group hug.

After a few more moments of the long embrace, they finally break apart - mostly, for the guitarist keeps a hand around the drummer’s waist, and the singer exuberantly presses a kiss to the cheeks of both his bandmates. The drummer laughs something, the singer giggling with her as the guitarist dips his shaggy head to hear before shaking it at whatever remark was made. John longs to experience a bond like that, so exuberant and clearly caring, full of affection--nigh close to love. 

The three of them disappear back into the darkness of the pub before he can muster up the courage to ask for their names. Ah, well. Perhaps it is for the best--he isn't the best at introductions, and likely won't clap eyes on them again. Overall, they were just a band of students, it seems--nothing amazing or spectacular; three guys and a girl in boring black outfits, standing in the half-light on a rickety little stage. Hardly memorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *John Deacon saw Queen play with one of their previous bassists in 1970 and was reportedly not very impressed
> 
> I'm sure that Roger Taylor was mistaken for a female in the seventies multiple times. He was quite pretty
> 
> (I know I need to finish other pieces I've started and been working on but I got REALLY EXCITED about posting this one)
> 
> Comments always appreciated <3


	2. You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An audition

**March, 1971.**

Some months later--the following year, John learns from a friend about an outfit needing a bass player. He plays bass, has done since he was sixteen; had learnt it for a band he was a part of during secondary school. 

"These blokes are picky," his mate warned. "Have already run through five bassists in less than a year!"

"Okay," John nods. So they are looking for something specific and require good help. He gets the pertinent information about auditioning from his mate, along with details off a notice board, and heads to Imperial College. 

Waiting outside the large space where auditions are apparently being held --this outfit really must be serious-- John chews his lower lip, clutching his bass and the homemade amplifier that he has brought with him. He gets a lot of use from his electrical engineering classes for interests in music, and it could be good to have this, to show it in order to showcase his uses. Besides, auditioning for a band, if he gets in, will give him something to do as a hobby on the weekends. Maybe could help him make a few more friends. He nods to himself, ready, he hopes; and then through the wood of the door, echoing across the enormous, seemingly cavernous space inside, he hears shouting.

"If I have to listen to ONE MORE bass riff from a bloke with the personality of a stick of wood I'm fucking gone!" 

"--Gone from whence, this rehearsal space or the band?" Asks another voice.

"From _whence_? Honestly Brian, who are you, bloody Shakespeare?!" The first voice demands.

"--have you decided yet, Blondie?" Inquires a third.

"Maybe, maybe not."

A scoff and shrieking guitar slide precedes the second voice continuing in a grumble "Clearly not, Shakespeare likely never had to deal with this…,"

"Utter gobshite?" The initial voice, high and sweet --John thinks he recognises it, but isn't certain-- now suggests.

A cough, a laugh, and then a "Well darlings, we've got one more applicant outside. Think we can bear it?"

John's heart thuds and his hands slip against his bass and amp with sweat. He makes to stand and leave; almost doesn't hear the second voice speak, seeming to plead "Rog--"

"Roger, dear,"

A heavy sigh. "Don't give me those looks, bloody hell-- alright, fine! We can't leave this last bloke in the lurch." John hears footsteps, sharp and fast and loud, and then the door flies open to frame that same gorgeous drummer from months ago, hooded eyes widening after having been narrowed into slits. "Right, who's up?" A cerulean blue gaze sweeps over John in his entirety, sizing him up before locking onto his face. "You?" 

John swallows and nods as he stands completely upright now.

"Alright, come on then," the blond beckons. "I'm Roger, that lanky arsehole with the guitar is Brian, and this fabulous individual is Freddie. What's your name?" 

John is asked all this as the drummer heads first into the high-ceilinged rehearsal room, carelessly waving a hand at his two bandmates and then back at John before bending and striking a match on the sole of his shoe. John is close enough now --and the drummer's trousers are rather tight; not to mention his shirt is open, showcasing a soft stomach and bare pectoral muscles, not breasts. So, John realises with a hot flush of embarrassment tinting his face, he was wrong in thinking the drummer was female. Yet he's still the most attractive person the bassist has ever seen.

"Erm, I'm John. John Richard Deacon," he squeaks as the drummer stares at him with those sharp blue eyes, puffing on the cigarette he'd just now lighted. "Born on August nineteenth, nineteen fifty-one. I play bass," he adds, stupidly. Of course he does, they know that; it's why he's here. Why did he say all that? He shuts his eyes, mortified, and hears a snort he's certain is either acerbic or incredulous. Possibly both.

But he gulps and opens his eyes as the guitarist says "Certainly you do. And this is…?" Gesturing at John's amplifier.

Without thinking, John tosses off "What's it look like?" As he strides over to where their instruments are grouped, placing his amp beside the drum kit and plugging his bass in, receiving a guffaw from the drummer in response. "Here," he offers a second extension cord from the side pocket of his bass case, plugging it into the side port of the amp. "For your guitar." His eyes flick up to the guitarist's, who freezes and demurs. 

"I've got a Vox."

"This works better than a Vox," John says shortly. "Less unnecessary reverb."

The guitarist's eyebrows disappear into his fluffy black hair as the drummer whistles and the third personage, fabulous Freddie sways in, licking his lips. "I do believe you've been challenged, Brian darling," he purrs, and John finds himself drowning in a pair of deep brown eyes that are twinkling at him with merry, naughty kindness. 

"Let's get on with it then," the drummer snaps, swinging one leg over his stool and smacking his sticks together as Brian accepts John's aux cord and plugs it into his guitar at last. John crouches, turning on the amplifier as the drummer starts a beat. "One, two, three, four!" He and the guitarist play their first notes together.

John wrinkles his brow and holds up a finger to them, hands instantly halting play in order to tune his instrument. The drummer is nodding with a grin as this little bassist, long brown hair hiding most of his face as he tunes, nods for them to play again after tightening his strings. 

Roger comes back in, and thumping perfectly in time are those knobbly pale fingers. They stay in time even as Brian shrieks in with Red, starting an elaborate solo to test the bloke. But he only raises an eyebrow and keeps his head, ducking his face over his instrument, lips pursed. 

And now "Ohhhhh, forgive me father, father I have sinned," a rich rushing voice, like velvet, washes over John and he shivers, recalling that voice in a dark club. That golden hair and falsetto shriek as well, and the crisp guitar sound… this was them; that student band whose music he hadn't expected to remember. Clearly they'd left more of an impression upon him than John had thought or realised before. 

He continues in time with the three members as they switch to another type of song; his bass is thrumming underneath that luscious voice, skating around the guitar, accentuating the drumbeats-- John focuses, biting his lip, and goes to the tune so hard, heart pounding in his ears, that he doesn't realise they've all stopped until the drummer whistles. 

"Alright, little bassman, cut it out already!" He waves both hands about, face alight, cigarette dangling from between his teeth; the entire image of which takes John's breath away. "We're done!"

Done? John's heart sinks. _Oh._ That was it then. They'd hated it, hated him. He had heard they were picky…. John nods, dropping to unscrew his cord from his amplifier. Doesn't know what he was expecting; they are all so good. "Right," his head bobs, cheeks flushing in shame. "Thanks." He shifts to ask Brian if he'll just unplug his guitar--

But "Whoah, what the fuck are you doing, John Richard Deacon?" The drummer's high voice needles at him. "Where 're ya going?"

John looks up at them, the lanky guitarist watching, the drummer with hands on his hips, thrusting his chest out. His bare skin is shining with sweat, good Lord forgive me, John starts a prayer in his head. Lest I covet-- but cut off are the words of his inner monologue as the lead singer at this point steps closer to him, commanding his attention. "We'd dearly love for you to stay, darling."

John blinks. Hold on. "I--what?" He manages.

"If you would," the guitarist added, voice soft, sweet. Soothing almost, but then growing a trifle more sharp as his brows knit together. "Unless you tried out as a --game of some sort and don't actually want to work with us."

"Brian!" Freddie hisses. Roger squints.

"Wait," John's eyes widen. "I'm not-- I mean. I --I, it... was it good?"

Roger shares a glance with Brian. He snorts. "Good, Deacon? You were bloody brilliant! I've never seen, and we've never had a bassist keep time like that!"

"--Not to mention you tuned yourself to stay on pitch with us," the guitarist agrees. "And you're right on that amp, it's long away crisper than my Vox. Where'd you get it?"

John's heart is finally slowing down. They like his playing. "Made it," he says as though offhand, though his voice is a trifle strangled.

There is silence. Then,

"That's fantastic, darling!"

"He's a bloody savant like you, Brian!"

"Holy Christ, what field are you in?"

"... Electrical engineering. Well. Studying it, anyway," John speaks quietly, lowering his reddening face at their praise. "I'm… in my first year at Uni." He hides his face shyly as Freddie gets to the heart of the matter.

"How old are you, dear?" He crosses and puts a hand on the bassist's shoulder. "I know you said your birth year when introducing yourself to us, but maths have never been my strong suit," admitting cheerfully.

"Fred's an artist, graphics designer," Brian explains. "Rog is a dental student, and I'm in astrophysics."

John risks a peek at this marvellous singer, who is TOUCHING him, goodness, and has called John more sweet names in the past fifteen minutes than he's heard from anyone in his life. He looks round at all of them, with their various skill sets that have naught to do with music, and yet they are all so incredibly gifted. This is it. "I'm nineteen," he murmurs, hiding behind his bass.

"Well fuck," Roger says.

"You're just a baby!" Freddie gasps. John blushes.

Another span of silence, and then Roger strides over and announces as he wraps a muscular arm around John's slim shoulders "Alright, he's young and shy-- nothin' but a wee bairn. I'm keeping him!" John peeks at Roger's face from behind his long dark hair and the drummer winks at him with a grin full of fondness. 

Brian rolls his eyes. "Roger, we don't even know if he wants to be in our band."

"Oh sod off, of course he wants to be in the band, wouldn't have knocked our socks off with that audition otherwise! Whaddaya say, John?" Roger crows, flinging his free arm out and whirling himself and the bassist around. 

Not to be outdone, Freddie takes John's hands after handing Brian the young man's bass, and spins him in a circle away from Rog. "Yes, what do you say, will you be a part of Queen? Oh, please-- you want him as well, don't you, Brian?"

They've stopped spinning, Freddie with both hands on John's waist as John wobbles, gasping and smiling. Roger is beaming and grinning at Brian over John's shoulder. Brian's shoulders settle and his eyes crinkle.

"Yes, if he'd like, I would. I do," the tall guitarist speaks quietly. Drawing himself upright, he sticks out his hand and strides over to shake John's in a formal manner. "John R. Deacon, I, Brian H. May, would like to formally inquire whether or not you'd be interested in joining Queen as our bassist and final member." He ignores Roger's exclamation about how ruddy formal he is, this isn't a fucking dissertation, fucking Christ-- and keeps his arm extended with one long hand ready to shake.

John bites his lower lip, looking at Freddie, who smiles at him, and then Roger, who nods encouragingly. He looks back to Brian, whose hazel eyes are crinkled hopefully before stepping forward, taking and pumping the tall man's hand. 

"I would," he said. "I mean, yes, I am interested in joining your band." He smiles at all of them bashfully, flashing the gap between his two top front teeth. "If--if you'll have me."

Roger, Brian, and Freddie share a glance after Brian grips John's hand in his, and all three blurt at once in friendly cacophony words he can't quite make out, yet the positive sentiments are clear:

"Of course we will!"

"This is wonderful."

"Fuck yeah, welcome to the family!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brian has said he used a Vox amplifier with his red special
> 
> *John really did make his own amplifier :)
> 
> *And Roger said they needed a bassist who was good and also had personality. John apparently spoke very little during his actual audition, but it was enough
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Everything that I Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsing and reticence
> 
> Warning for minor injuries described below

Logically, John knows he is a good bass player. He’s been playing for years and has the callouses to prove it. Learnt to play bass in the first place after starting initially with rhythm guitar-- the bassist in his previous band played so consistently poorly that John quietly took it upon himself to learn. 

Queen may not be the first band he’d been a part of. Yet they are by far the most talented band he’s been a part of, and that’s what makes him question his own abilities.

They’ve all got incredible skill. Freddie has the flamboyant showmanship it takes to keep an audience’s interest, Brian is known for his precise hands and the unique tunes they elicit from his guitar, and Roger’s got both the strength and speed necessary for pounding on all those different drums without ever missing a beat. Not to mention they can all hold a tune, their voices blending together flawlessly in harmonies John can’t even dream of partaking in. 

But perhaps the most intimidating thing about them is their drive, their steadfast determination to be the best musicians, the best band that they can possibly be. Queen will have no dead weight holding them back. John wouldn’t have been the sixth person to fill the position of bassist had mediocrity or moochers been accepted. He’s determined to not be yet another failed band member, cast aside because they couldn’t keep up with the raw power of Brian, Freddie, and Roger.

So John starts practicing more and more, whenever he can find the time to do so. Prior to joining Queen, he practiced often enough, but not nearly as often as this trio that have been a performing band for months. John makes a conscious and conscientious decision to spend more time playing alone, in addition to playing with the group. After all, practice makes perfect, and perfect is what Queen deserves.

Up until now, all John’s hard work has been paying off. He sounds better than ever. Yet now John’s hands are stiff and sore, not to mention covered in nicks and blisters. He is in more instrument-induced pain than ever. 

John winces when he picks up his bass to start practice, but tries to turn his grimace into something resembling a smile when Brian shoots him a concerned look. John is already the baby at age 19, two years younger than Roger, four years behind Brian, and five years Freddie’s junior. Whining at a minor injury will not help John prove that he’s just as mature and experienced as his elder bandmates. Especially an injury typically had by amateurs still adjusting to the physical strain of playing an instrument.

A half hour into practice, John’s hands start bleeding. Wincing a bit again and deploring his weakness, he continues to play, smearing blood all over his bass. It is Brian who notices first, Roger whipping his head round in response to Brian's widened eyes and sharp whisper. He slows his drumbeat, and Freddie's voice chokes off in shock and worry. Why is John bleeding? He shouldn't be; it’s not normal considering his prior experience and the amount of time they’ve been practicing. More importantly, why is he still trying to play when he’s bleeding and in obvious pain? It’s just practice, not a performance, for cripes sake; they can take a break so John can clean his hand up.

A shrieking note from Bri's red special precedes Roger's shout of "Alright, stop!" 

Freddie instantly ceases singing to put down his microphone and move towards John in concern. "John, dear,"

"No no, go on, I can keep playing," John whispers, shaking his head frantically, closing his eyes. He misses the incredulous glance Roger shares with Brian as the drummer flips his sticks and Bri pulls his guitar off his back, pressing his lips together.

"No, mate, you can't," Roger retorts heatedly.

"More than that, you shouldn't," Brian agrees, eyes pained at the sight of blood spotting John's fingers and knuckles, not to mention smearing across the surface of his bass.

"Your poor hands," Freddie croons, and Roger charges round his drum kit and swears that he's bandaging John’s hands, despite the bassist's feeble protests that he can go on, or at least do it himself. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, mate--stop, hands off, shut the fuck up and let me help you. Jesus, John," Roger takes hold of the bassist's pale hands, and John flinches, whether from Roger's touch on the tender skin around bloody, oozing blisters on the pads of his fingers and thumb, as well as the upper portion of his palm close to the bases of each metacarpal bone or something else, the drummer doesn't know. He mumbles something about the broken skin and sends Freddie out of the rehearsal room for bandages and peroxide as Brian carefully takes the strap of John's bass in his long hands and lifts it from the youngest man's shoulders.

"I'll clean this for you, John," the lanky guitarist says quietly, curling his hands deftly around the instrument and carrying it to a table. Tongue between his teeth he pulls rags and cleaning fluid that is wood, metal, and wire-safe out of his own bag. John knows how careful, how precious Brian is of his red special, that special-made guitar he treats as if it was a person.

Squirting a tiny bit of liquid onto the first soft bit of cloth, the tall man bends and sits at the table, bringing John's bass to him and cradling it in his arms as he carefully begins to clean off the gore. John watches for a moment with a lump in his throat before Freddie returns with more cleansing materials, for John himself this time, and the bassist gasps as Roger pulls and spreads his fingers out and tells him to splay them straight.

"Hold still," the drummer snaps, and pours peroxide over the open wounds on John's hands before telling Freddie to get water and soap. John lets out a brief yelp and Brian's shoulders tense up, his hazel gaze rising to John's grey-green one in sympathy. 

John looks down, biting his lower lip as Freddie soothes him, patting and cleaning his hurt hand with cool wet cloths, murmuring "There there, darling."

Roger rips open a bandage kit with his teeth and wraps John's hands after Freddie dries them for him. After he's bandaged John apologises for being the reason practice was stopped, and goes to pick up his instrument, which Brian had carefully cleaned completely. Roger stares at him and makes a sharp sound, Brian steps up with eyes crinkled in shocked concern, and Freddie insists that practice is done for the day.

"Why are your hands so battered, dearest? Even more than Brian's?"

"I--was worried," John gulps, bowing his head over his newly-bandaged hands, trying not to tremble with nerves. "That I wasn't-- I'm not like all of you," he says, eyes flickering up to catch theirs' briefly before he ducks his face again with a discomfited shrug. "I wasn't...born to this. I've been working, so hard, practicing alone to make sure I'm good enough, so you'll...you can keep me, and not be ashamed to have an electrical engineer whose hobby is bass-playing in your band." He looks up now, trying to smile to mask how genuinely worried he is. "--but if you don't want me, I'll--" he moves as if he is honestly going to go, just up and scarper out and leave the band behind. John freezes as Brian makes a wrenching noise somewhere between a gasp and speech, and Roger reaches out to him. But it is Freddie who speaks.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with us, darling.” Freddie gives John a teasing smile, but his words ring with truth. “We’ve found our perfect little bassist, and now we’re never letting him go; are we boys?” 

“Never!” Roger screeches in agreement, sounding indignant at the mere thought of John leaving as he traps the bassist there with an arm brusquely wrapped around his shoulders, physically ensuring that he can’t depart.

Even quiet Brian flashes a gentle smile as he adds solemnly “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re a part of the band now, John. Just as much as the rest of us.” John covers his mouth with his less damaged hand to hide the dopey smile he’s sure is apparent on his face. While Freddie and Roger’s words of acceptance mean the world to John, they’ve welcomed him with open arms since day one. Brian, the founding member of Smile, Queen’s precursor, is the one that this band never would have formed without. His approval means everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my dear ghost writer on this one :)
> 
> *Through research I've learned John did indeed start off as a rhythm guitarist and learned to play bass in order to assist the band he was previously a part of
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	4. Speaks Books to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my dear ghost writer for editing this one

John, being new to the band, calls for a bit of introducing during sets. The boys come up with various and sundry colourful ways to describe one another; Freddie calls Roger "the biggest member of us all!" And Brian almost trips over his amplifier in scandalised shock. 

But they've got to get John known, though he is so quiet, fading into the darkness during performances. At least, he fades into the background until Freddie notices his dancing (after Roger points it out with a fond grin) and thus the singer pulls the bassist up front with him more often. John flushes and feels awkward, but he'd do almost anything for Freddie.

And they've got people who know their name now. Well, a few.

Having fans is supposed to be a good thing. People who know your music and follow you, as Freddie did Smile. It's a treat to glance out and see glimpses of people who look familiar because they have been to concerts before. But there are certain types of fans who ruin the name for everyone else.

It's a group settled near the front during a set. Brian notices them after Rog nods and smiles widely. "They've come to shows of ours before, Bri."

"Really?" Brian's eyebrows rise into his fluffy hair, hardly daring to believe that Queen could have a following.

But Freddie breezes by chirping "--Of course, darling, I remember a few of those faces from the Smile days. Lovely." He smiles at them, and as John comes in, fiddling with his amplifier and the tuning, Roger taps the bassist's shoulder and Freddie tells him "Look, darling, some new fans for you. They already know us three."

"Been watching us for a while, Johnny. Now they're never gonna fucking forget you!" Roger crows, hands clapping onto John's shoulders as he steers the bassist over to introduce him to the group. "Hi, chaps. See you've noted the new blood." He slaps John's arm and crows "This here is our bass boy. Say hullo to everybody!"

"Er, hullo," John inclines his head with a shy little smile, pushing at his hair. "I'm John, Deacon. New bassist. Lovely to meet such long-standing Queen lovers." His smile flashes the gap in his teeth. There are raised eyebrows and snorts and lowered faces, smirks. Roger stares around sharply and John is both confused and embarrassed, but the fans don't say aught to enlighten the band members on the reason or reasons for their amusement.

It is in a pub after the gig when they prove themselves to be prats. 

The set itself was kicking, they'd been working at a new song written by Brian and entitled "Keep Yourself Alive" --bit of an intense title, that; indicative of the tough row to hoe in the music business; things John had not conceived of before this band. Hearing Roger and Brian hash out details, Rog twiddling a cigarette between two fingers and Brian leaning on the table with elbows bent and a crease between his brows as Freddie comes round and hands them both cups of tea--it showcases the differences between them, and between this band and John's previous one. They haven't got a lot of money coming in, no royalties of course, as they're still searching for a full-time manager. But that doesn't make them work any less hard. John's started looking at the finances they have got, and is interested in them. Running numbers is something he can do, another way in which to help.

_I was told so many times of all the people in my way, thought to grow a little wiser, little better every day! But if I crossed a million rivers and I rode a million miles-- I'd still be where I started, yeah, same as when I started--_

_Keep yourself alive, ah huh, keep yourself alive, oh yeah-- all you people, keep yourselves alive!!!_

John's bass riffs stay under Bri's guitar as Roger keeps them in time. Freddie's rich voice soars. John wonders why they can't just be satisfied to stay right where they are; yet it seems in every bit of Roger's bright being, in Brian's yearning eyes, Freddie's bombastic antics onstage--they all three intend to be superstars. It's a great song, really, bit morose at times, but hopeful as well as powerful. Even if he doesn't share that definite yearning to be a rock star, playing with these three men gives John a feeling of euphoria. 

In the pub they all relocate to, Roger and Freddie go right out amongst people. Brian hangs back just a bit, to hold drinks and shake hands in a more sedate fashion as he thanks folks for coming. John just stays at the rear because the amount of people is overwhelming. That's when he catches sight and sound of that fan group who'd come to previous shows. John is readying a smile and a nod for them, preparing to step forward, when he catches what they are currently talking about.

Two lads pinch their noses and begin to talk nasally, scrunching up their faces. Perhaps the taunting speech is for the benefit of the girls they are with, which is low enough, but their choice of fodder is the lowest blow. After speaking with a terrible (but recognisable) impression of John's voice, one scoffs out "Did you HEAR him? First they had a Cornish garble, now this one. Where's he from, Mars? Gotta be an alien with a voice like that!" Because it's an accent no one else has, not even others from John's home region in the Midlands.

Roger's eyes bulge where he stands, having just passed that table and heard twas a good show. And now, ooh-- He whirls and has a mind to grab the bloke who'd spoken about John by his shirt collar and drag him across the table to beat his arse, just pound the piss out of him, but Brian beats him to it.

The guitarist had not passed by the table yet and now steps forward, looming over the men and their dates. He cannot stand cruelty or injustice done to an innocent being, and John is wonderful. They call themselves fans, really? How dare they? And how far they not only disparage John, but the Cosmos that Brian has worked so hard about which to learn! No, this will not stand.

John ducks his head in shame, but is startled into looking up again when the guitarist grips his shoulder and hangs on, fingers spread. "Why would you mock his accent? His VOICE? How foul and unnatural are you to stand there and pick at someone for something they cannot help, for speaking as they do? Is it because he doesn't sing? Because he speaks more eloquently with the frets of his bass than all of you have just done with your tongues combined." John stares up at Brian in awed and thankful shock. Bri's hand trembles a bit and his voice thickens as he concludes "...Shame on you for treating him so ill."

Roger pokes his head around Brian's back, as he had charged back around, and glowers at the group. "Yeah, so sod off, you tossers, or I'll make you!" His bright eyes snap at each of the people and then he looks to John, offering a glass of beer and wrapping his hand around his friend's. High husk and expression in his eyes are both exceedingly gentle as Brian continues to loom over the bastards with arms crossed. They fall all over themselves to get up and leave. Mayhap to get a drink, or make fun of someone else. "Johnny, you alright mate?" The drummer murmurs.

John swallows and nods. "Y-yes, Roger. Thanks." He stands in place, shocked to his very core. He never expected to have Brian take up for him like that. He knows Roger, vehement loyal Roger will throw down. Freddie can be counted upon to soothe him and scoff at a person afterwards. But Brian had guilted these people in the moment, made them feel like specks of dust for being cruel, and John is so incredibly touched by that even as he never expected to witness Bri reacting this way.

***

They vacate the premises and move on to another place then, because Roger is pissed enough, literally and metaphorically, to beat the shit out of the blokes for talking about John, and even though they were indeed awful, they are fans; Queen needs neither bad press nor old bill --the police-- to come calling so early in their career. 

Besides, they could all use a spot of supper. 

They go for food at an incredibly loud, crowded restaurant, and John is instantly assaulted by sound. Roger and Freddie are more in their element amongst the chaos, and Brian enjoys the raucous nature of gigs so loud places surely don’t bother him too much. He smiles after Freddie who is incredibly excited, jauntily heading over to the bar at the back of the restaurant. 

It's Roger, boisterous and golden and just as invigorated as Fred, who sees John shutting down and clenching himself up as he stands as close to a corner as possible, flinching as loud youngsters zoom by even as he tries to smile politely and stay out of everyone's way; saying "pardon me" and "sorry" as he moves close to his bandmates. Reaching out as if to take someone's hand.

Roger shifts close to John and dips his head in as the bassist's fingers brush against his. "Oi John, you alright?" John automatically swallows, clutching Roger's sleeve now with his trembling fingers, and Roger adds "Need to step outside for a minute? I'll come with, let's go. We'll be back in a bit, Bri, tell Fred." The blond wraps an arm around John's tense shoulders and swiftly shoves past folks to get him outside. 

Roger casually takes out a cigarette like it was his plan to have a smoke break the entire time, but he's guided John just out of the light to a quiet spot outdoors. Roger taps out the cig and lights it as John takes deep breaths and tries to relax. His ears feel like they're ringing and his eyes sting with tears as he whispers "Roger, thank you. I'm sorry for making you leave...," 

Roger, teeth clenched round cigarette as it bobs before his lips, says "Ah, mate, don't worry about me, I'm fine."

"But you love the loudness in there," John's voice breaks pathetically. "I'm-- I'm ruining your fun. Here, and-- and at the last place."

“Bullshit. You’re not ruining anything, John. It’s not fun if I’m worried about you not having fun. And we shouldn't have had to share space with those wankers anyway. Gotta watch out for my boy,” the drummer smiles, blowing a smoke ring.

John doesn't smile back. Instead he sniffles, teardrops collecting on his lashes. "Oh, I don't want you to worry for me, or feel like you have to protect me. Rog, I'm not--"

"Bloody hell, Johnny-- if you say anything like 'I'm not worth it,' I will kick your arse. Here." He takes a drag and offers his cigarette to his friend, its glowing end an offering as bright as the vehement kindness he shows.

John shuffles closer, slowly taking the cigarette from Roger. His fingers catch hold of his friend's for an instant as the teardrops grow heavy enough on his lashes to drip onto his cheeks. John shuts his eyes and Roger automatically reaches out with a gentle thumb to wipe the water away. “We’ll stay out here as long as you need, yeah? Long as you want, even.”

John lets out a single gulping, choking sob, overwhelmed not just by this but by the whole night as he nods before taking a shaky pull on the cigarette, turning his head to blow smoke away from his friend. His green-grey gaze flicks to Roger's and then as the last of the cigarette flames, he buries his face in the drummer's warm chest. Roger instantly wraps both arms around him.

They are still in that position a few minutes later, when Brian pokes his head out the door to check on them, carrying a parcel of sustenance. “Everything alright?”

John’s throat closes up again, unsure of what to say, to explain why he can’t handle the noise and the chaos that the others seem to revel in. Especially not after what had been said about him. He shouldn't have such thin skin.... 

“Yeah, fine,” Roger answers Brian smoothly, and John barely holds back a sigh of relief. “Fancied a smoke. Grateful you don’t indulge, Bri, I had to share my last cig with this one.” He squeezes John a bit tighter against him.

“Well then, enjoy ruining your lungs together,” Brian sniffs, but he shoots Roger a small smile that shows even if he doesn’t approve of his friends' more unhealthy habits, he does appreciate how they look out for one another. He steps out and offers the parcel. "Got you something to eat, John," he adds. "Since clearly Rog couldn't think of increasing your health, just ruining it."

Roger makes a face back at Brian, stroking the back of John's head as he presses a soft kiss to the bassist's temple before leaning over and snatching the bundle from the guitarist. "Cheers, we will enjoy that, and this. Be back indoors in a bit, alright?"

Brian nods, glancing over his shoulder. "Right. I'm going to go back in with Freddie--" the tenor of his words lets the others know their exuberant lead singer is definitely up to something. Brian leans over and squeezes Roger's shoulder, pats John's head. "I'll see you lads back inside."

"Got it, Bri." Rog crushes out the end of his cigarette after taking a final puff and smiling at John. He passes over the food. "You ready to go back in?"

John presses his lips together and nods, holding the parcel of food Brian had brought out to him so thoughtfully close to his chest. With these men beside him, he feels ready to handle anything.

Well. As ready as one can ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The sound of John's voice is very particular, and is unlike the typical accent of his birth area. And Mike Grose, Queen's previous bassist, with a "big sound" according to Roger Taylor, was from Cornwall. As Americans have stereotypes about various dialects in the US, so too do the British have some, and I'm sure other countries do as well. But John's bandmates have his back :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this, comments appreciated <3


	5. So Stick Around

As a part of the band, working all together on their first album - well, John is adding his bass parts to the songs already created - he feels a trifle closer-knit. Turns various words the others have said over in his mind, as well as their reactions; thinking on Roger's screeches of excitement after a particularly good riff, Brian nodding silently, Freddie swooping over to embrace him and croon "That was fantastic, darling!" and is grateful for them all.

Yet some words he hears from the others, spoken to one another seemingly without thought, painfully casual are nicknames, pet names, gentle reminders of how close they are. That their bond is more than just that of a band.

And John's chest twinges a bit as he finds himself wondering if he will ever be close enough to receive a nickname too.

***

John is with Roger the first time he hears it. The stage they’d been performing upon has been traded in for the club’s bar, where the two bandmates sit, leaning against one another as they are barely managing to keep upright on their barstools. They’re both plastered, giggling at anything and everything, but especially each other. John can’t even recall what his most recent remark was, but Roger apparently found it even more outrageously funny than the last. Roger throws his head back in laughter, accidentally swinging strands of blond hair right into his friend’s face, but John is too drunk to mind, and keeps chuckling at that alone.

Once they’ve regained all the composure they’re capable of having - a miniscule amount - Roger wipes the mirth-induced tears from his big blue eyes. “Deaks,” he exclaims, breathing hard. “That was amazing. I knew you had a sense of humour somewhere in you, I just knew it.” He claps John on the shoulder proudly, but his hand lands more forcefully than intended, the momentum sending his unsteady friend toppling out of his seat and onto the floor.

Roger clambers, tumbles down beside his fallen friend, movements jerky and unbalanced. Panic sobers him as he reaches out to John, who is still sprawled out looking dazed. “Shit mate, I’m sorry, I -” he exclaims worriedly, until John cannot keep a straight face any longer, bursting into laughter that abruptly ends Roger’s concerns. Now that Roger knows John is unharmed, he finds John’s tumble as funny as John does, and laughs along with him. They laugh harder and longer at that than any other joke of the night.

John is miserable when he wakes up the next morning, hungover and with his bruised tailbone smarting, but hearing Rog nickname him the same way he would Fred or Bri makes it all worth it.

***

They are neither intoxicated nor injured when Freddie uses one of John’s nicknames. The whole band is together, lounging around the small living room of Roger, Brian, and Freddie's shared flat.

"--well after John was finished making eyes, I strolled up, as you do, and told her just what our dear John means to us, so she'd better take excellent care of him." Freddie's eyes are sparkling as he speaks of a lovely young lady who'd been chatting with John. The bassist tunes in as Fred gazes over affectionately after Roger laughs and Brian asks if Freddie's newest duty is band watchdog. Freddie beams. "Of course, Brimi. I have to watch out for my Deaky."

Brian smiles, nodding his head. "Fair enough, Fred."

Roger's brows rise and he leans in a conspirational manner over the back of the couch. "Just who IS this girl, Freddie?"

Brian rolls his eyes. "That's John's business, Rog!"

"Oh what, so Fred can know all about who she is but I can't?"

"Deaky and I can tell each other anything, I'm sure you know," Freddie tells Roger.

His eyes twinkle as Roger snorts and coughs out "What am I to Deaks then?" 

"...A nuisance?" Offers Brian. Then with his lips twitching, "Oh wait, that's just what you are to me." 

"Piss off, Bri." 

John sits by with a smile lighting up his expressive face at their light-hearted bickering, over _him_! He doesn't quite believe it, but the nickname spoken in Freddie's gentle way rolls off the singer's tongue so naturally that John nearly doesn’t notice as the others continue speaking. Freddie speaks it with the casual air of a lifelong friend, like this is the millionth time he’s referenced John so affectionately. John’s been called Deaky or Deaks before, and he’s always liked the shortening of his surname, but there’s something special about the way Freddie says the former, it feels like praise or affection just as much as when he calls John his “darling” or “dear”.

***

Something as simple as a nickname shouldn’t mean so much to John, but it does. There’s a familiarity in addressing someone by something other than their given name or title, a closeness that makes the person okay with being referred to so informally. Roger and Freddie have already signaled their approval of John through the use of “Deaks” or “Deaky”, but Brian has yet to call him anything other than John. 

It makes sense that Brian would not throw nicknames around so easily, John supposes, because there is an everyday graveness to Brian that their bandmates lack. He speaks with more solemnity, words carefully selected before expressed verbally. Brian has never done a single thing in the spur of the moment, his actions and words are always reasoned and deliberate. 

He tries to be patient as he grows closer to Brian, but each fond exclamation of “Fred” or “Rog” that falls from Brian’s lips hurts John - not Deaky or Deaks, just plain not-worthy-of-a-nickname-yet John.

It finally happens one night after a gig, when they are loading the van; Freddie and Roger are behind them, likely with their heads together planning to go off somewhere with someone--or several someones. Roger had tossed John the keys to pull and bring the van around, and Brian has gathered their amps and microphones and instruments together. He wraps his lanky arms around Rog's bass drum as John carefully backs the van up to the back-door loading dock and leaps out, opening the doors for Brian and instantly coming to aid him without a word. Roger would have fussed and Freddie pouted, but dear John goes to things with a will and knows what needs to be done. Brian is touched by this, and impressed. John always seems to be watching and listening and to know exactly what needs doing. He takes hold of an amp now and climbs up into the rear of the van, hair swinging as he shuffles backwards to help Brian.

Working in tandem, they get the van filled in record time, and as John hops down off the runner, stumbling a bit in his platform heels, a long hand reaches out and steadies him. He looks up into the shadowed lean face of the tall guitarist and says softly, "Thank you, Brian."

Shifting his hand from John's arm up to his shoulder and squeezing, the curly-haired man dips his head with a smile, his pointed teeth catching on his lower lip in a bright expression of real pleasure. His tone is serious and gaze sincere as he responds "Ah, that's alright. I want to thank YOU, Deaky. You're good for us, for this band." Brian dips his chin with a sharp nod and rubs John's shoulder with the ball of his thumb briefly before letting go. 

As he flashes the bassist another small smile whilst hopping into the van and they hear Freddie and Roger's excited chatter arriving, John stands for a moment frozen, his heart and eyes full. Brian, kind but reserved Brian, has called him Deaky. Brian is not there to see the relieved and delighted grin he’s caused to appear on his friend’s face - his bandmate turned friend, that is, who now knows, without any doubts, he has been accepted as such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again? It's been a bit but here is another chapter, about half-and-half written by myself and my ghost writer :)
> 
> *I've learned that John said in an interview for Queen's first album, the songs were already written, he came in and played all the bass parts. Props to him for being so willing
> 
> Oooh who could the girl be at whom John was making eyes, according to Freddie? Give you one guess ;P
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter about burgeoning friendship, comments appreciated <3


	6. Leaving Home Ain't Easy

It is unclear who initially gets the idea.

Perhaps it's Freddie, who had been the band member to share a flat with six people at a time previously; in two tiny bedrooms, no less. Having a living space for blokes from two separate bands. He certainly wants his boys close, brings them tea and pillows and touches their faces or hair as he enters or leaves any room in the flat - every time he does so. Lingers with John often, arms wrapped around his neck, fingers laced to hold the bassist close as Freddie brushes his lips to the younger man's cheek or hair, and whispers "How lovely it is to have you round, Deaky my darling." 

Or Roger, who swears about having " - nothing but bloody beans and bread in the cupboards again, told you we needed to go shopping again Fred!" And next afternoon he'd run squarely into John (the bassist having come round to do some rhythm work) and knocked his bag to the floor. It seemed heavier than usual as it fell, and the bassist scrambled to right it, but not before the drummer had seen some fruits and vegetables, as well as a can of soup or two. "Deaks, did you... go shopping for us, mate?" He whispers. John shrugs and blushes and says something about already going for himself. 

"Seems a shame to make two trips when I was already planning to come over, y'know...but I'm sorry if I - you probably didn't want me to know, er - I shouldn't have gone -"

Roger swoops the bassist into his arms to stop John bumbling over words and blurts out "You thoughtful little bastard, I love you." Which makes John beam, and Roger thinks with a fond ruffle of the bassist's soft long hair, they really ought to have him around more.

Perhaps it is because their rehearsing has spilt out of the spaces at school, or wherever else they are able to go - they end up oftentimes back at Roger, Brian, and Freddie's flat (which is the best rehearsal space anyhow, if not acoustically at least everyone can keep their instruments out and stay the night without an irascible history professor demanding to know what exactly it is they're playing at in his lecture hall at six in the morning).

Perhaps it is when John begins to bring his homework around and asks Brian, quietly, only if it isn't too much trouble, erm - if there's a place for him to do a bit of work on schematics - and Brian, who's got a wall on which he tacks up star charts, finds ample space for Deaks to create his own little engineering haven. Because even if Fred and Roger scoff over due diligence, Brian recognises the head down, nose to the grindstone work ethic of sketching out diagrams and writing notes. Sees the sheen of excitement agleam in John's eyes as he learns of transistors and currents, an excitement Bri once felt every single time he gazed up at the stars. 

Things are different now, but it was when, one night after John dropped off to sleep over his books, blanket draped tenderly around his slim shoulders and half-drunk cup of tea stone-cold beside him, that Brian scoops the young man carefully into his arms and whispers "We ought to just get a bed in for him, lads" that all three look at one another and know.

"Well he has surely got to come live here with us then, hasn't he?"

***

Roger brings boxes back to John's dormitory for him and says that Bri and Fred will come for any furniture, and surprisingly swiftly John has a set of keys to the dingy little place his three bandmates call home. First week he's in Roger tosses their microwave out of the open window because he swears it doesn't work (John goes down to the street and checks it; sure enough there had been a wire shorting out and he could have fixed it). Brian warns him that expecting anything to be clean is to give oneself the job to clean it. "Fred and Rog still don't do dishes," he says as he shakes out wrinkles in a shirt, topmost in a pile that's laid on the coffee table for now, beside the little basket he'd put clothes in after drying. "I'm lucky if either one of them does their laundry. Good hands with getting groceries though," he adds almost apologetically. "And with spending money."

Case in point about the laundry, John walks into the front room to find Freddie tossing down a garment and saying "Folding is so BORING, darling."

Roger nods vigorously and responds "yeah fuck this", tossing the warm clothes out of their basket and onto the fuzzy chaise which is the largest piece of furniture they currently have in this room. John cannot stop a giggle as Roger says "Mm clothes are warm, though, c'mon Freddie, John." and jumps into the clean pile.

Brian enters the room with a heavy sigh and a slight double-take, though he isn't really surprised, just exasperated. "Roger, for god's sake--"

“Come snuggle, Bri, we’ve got a nest!”

“Is that what this is? Looks like a pile of clean clothes getting all wrinkled to me.”

"Aw c'mon, it's totally a nest!"

“And I suppose that makes you the bird-brain?”

Roger contemplates telling Brian to fuck off, and then looks over at Freddie, whose eyes are sparkling. John's body has settled into his lap and the bassist is still laughing. So Roger turns back to the guitarist and speaks in a manner heavy and deadpan. "Cheep cheep, Brian. Cheep cheep." Flicking out his tongue cheekily then, he lets out a raucous noise, lifting his arms and making flapping motions for Brian to join them in their nest.

Along with having fun like that, Freddie and Roger are also good at dealing with what they've got, the little they've got. Various lamps inside their flat have a sense of mystique because Roger found some woven cloth bits with fringe "Think they might've been napkins or something, dunno but an elderly lady was giving stuff away, yeah, so I got some, and thought they'd make the lamps look nice." He tosses one over the lampshade, and it provides a low ruddy glow. "Ta-da!" The drummer crows. "You're welcome." Freddie beams and claps for him.

"Never leave them on the lamps if we're leaving," mutters John. "Or while you're sleeping out here, 'less you want to be a man on fire, Roger."

Rog gets a set look on his face. "Y' never know what I could do, John."

"I c'n only imagine, and I'm terrified," the bassist deadpans.

***

Freddie comes by incredibly interesting finds for the flat, some of which cause the others to worry just a bit.

Roger casually lies with his head in John's lap one afternoon as John absentmindedly cards his fingers through Rog's soft blond hair. It feels really nice. Brian groans as Roger stretches his body across the rest of the couch and puts his legs in the other man's lean lap, wheedling: "C'mon Bri, join in!" 

The guitarist eventually shakes his head and puts aside the notebook he had been attempting to write in, as he is not going to get anything done with jabs of toes and sharp heels digging into him. He grabs Roger by the legs and lifts them a little to massage the drummer's calves. 

"Getting pampered feels so nice, mmm y' should do this for me every day," Roger groans appreciatively at the strength of Brian's fingertips against a knotted muscle. Brian snorts.

"In your dreams."

Roger cheekily raises his eyebrows. "Oh I go for a lot more in my dreams," he speaks in a suggestive manner just to elicit Brian's intake of breath and bright blush across both cheeks after he eventually gets the innuendo. It's endearing, not to mention adorable. The drummer squeezes Bri's shoulder as the guitarist ducks, his long black curls falling to hide his flushing face.

"Budge over, would you, dear?"

Freddie appears from elsewhere and flops himself over top of all of them to join and ends up in their cuddle pile on the new couch. It is a tiny, lumpy one that they can barely all fit on. It's a garish colour, to boot - some strange turquoise.

"Where the fuck did you get this couch, Brian?"

"Don't look at me, Fred found it."

"Where? In a bloody dumpster?"

"Of course not, darling! It was from a flat at uni, some lovely boys let me have it for cheap."

"Lovely boys?" Brian repeats slowly. 

"...Didja get it from a frat house, Freddie?"

"Oho, he did!" Roger chortles, hair flying as he whips his head to look at the expression on Freddie's face. 

The singer presses his lips together over top of his teeth before blurting out "Yes, alright, they were tossing things out, but it's a nice couch, darlings! Isn't it? Gives us SOME snuggle room," the last he adds in protestation.

Brian nestles closer in reassurance. "Of course, it's great, Fred." Freddie's lips purse in a smile as he shoots up and gives Brian a thankful kiss on the cheek. Brian flushes with a little smile in response.

John says softly "...I only hope they washed it first, or that you did, Freddie."

Roger starts laughing as Brian freezes in realisation of what John's words could --or must-- mean. "Oh, Christ..."

"Haha, give it a deep clean, eh Fred?"

"I'm sure it'll need one from you at some point in future, Roger dear."

"That's it, I'm getting up," Brian shoves at the cushions and the others, only to have Roger fling both arms around his middle to drag him back down.

"No Bri, c'mon, we're not done snuggling!"

Snuggle piles continue on their new couch and around the flat, including (but not limited to) bedtimes. 

One such time is after classes have let out for the day and Roger and Freddie return from Kensington Market. Brian sits in an armchair, reading, and John is curled up on the couch. Brian looks over his reading glasses as with an elaborate huff Freddie arrives and comes over to his chair. Stroking his hair and murmuring "Hello my love," Freddie gazes down at the tallest man warmly.

"Hullo Fred," Bri says, shifting his legs and closing his book. "You have a good time at the market?" 

Freddie nods and smiles before climbing into Brian's lap and wrapping his arms round the guitarist's neck, immediately rubbing at the knotted muscles, as Bri had been hunching forward reading. As always. "Oh, yes. Let me tell you all about it, dear."

Freddie quietly talks about all the clothes he and Roger found (and attempted to sell) whilst massaging his friend's neck, and John cracks open one eye as Brian makes an appreciative sound.

The youngest has no time to feel left out, however, as a blur of movement precedes the weight of Roger's warm body laying across him and the drummer's high voice utters "Budge up, John, lemme cuddle." Roger had flounced in, saw Freddie with Brian and then John, decidedly alone, and flung himself on top of the bassist. 

John shifts obligingly towards the front of the sofa and Roger nuzzles his face into the back of the bassist's neck, wrapping an arm around John's waist and pulling him in to be the little spoon. Roger shifts his legs to rest against the backs of John's, cuddling close. "Ah, my sleepy baby Deaky," he murmurs, lips brushing against John's earlobe, making John shiver a bit as he shuts his eyes tight. "Want me to sing you a lullaby?"

John rolls his eyes. Rog has begun ribbing him about his age as the youngest of the group. Surely because he himself is no longer the youngest member, and wants everyone to be aware of that fact. The bassist decides he's going to get his own back and moves, flipping himself over to face Roger, legs entwining with the drummer's as he rests his forehead against the other man's. John moves so close so fast that Roger's breath hitches in surprise. 

"No thanks, old man," John says, idly reaching out and running a hand up the side of Roger's ribcage. Roger doesn't have his glasses on so unless John remains exactly this close his features are blurry. But when he tries to get his glasses, old man as he is, reaching for them in order to see John better, Deaks stops him. "Don't," he whispers. "Y' don't need those, Roger. I'll make sure I get--stay close enough." He blushes now, smile bashful. "I... really like just seeing your eyes."

Roger gives John one of his signature movie star smiles, and his big blue eyes shine. John's breath stops and he shivers. Roger instantly squints, hands running up and down John's arms and then across his back in concern. "What's up, Deaks? You get a chill?"

"I--no," John breathes now and bumbles a little. "You're just... you're really handsome. And your eyes are beautiful."

Roger's face softens and his hands cup John's cheeks, fingers fanning out as he tips John's chin close. "Right back atcha, Johnny," he says, tone a low growl. John doesn't know what possesses him to do so but Roger already has a hold of his chin, so he pushes closer and nuzzles his face to his friend's. Tilting his head, his long lashes flutter against Roger's cheek, and Rog wraps his strong arms around John's back and head, pulling him in, holding him there. 

Meanwhile Freddie and Brian remain curled and chatting in their chair, limbs folded over each other's, Brian's arms around Freddie's waist and Fred's bum settled in his friend's lap; utterly oblivious to any interaction that is not their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, John has now moved in and the band is coalescing! Certainly not ALL times in the flat are going to be this snuggly... But who can blame the boys, really?
> 
> It's been a long time, but hopefully I can add some more sooner this time!
> 
> *Freddie is said to have had members from Smile and Ibex both living in a tiny flat with him at one point
> 
> Hope you're all doing well out there, comments appreciated <3


End file.
